


you and I, we're just pressing flowers.

by delusionalwithlove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusionalwithlove/pseuds/delusionalwithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Scott laid eyes on it-- an innocuous, violet-colored flower twisting up from the soil in the small garden his grandfather tended --he was four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and I, we're just pressing flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Pressing Flowers" by The Civil Wars.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr for the drabble prompt "Scerek, wolfsbane."

_Aconitum._

The first time Scott laid eyes on it-- an innocuous, violet-colored flower twisting up from the soil in the small garden his grandfather tended --he was four, and being four, it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. Its petals were surprisingly fine and fragile, and he cried when in his exuberance, the half-open bloom he bent down to examine was crushed under his graceless touch.

_Monkshood._

It burned his fingertips even through the bullet casing, sat smoldering in his pocket the whole way to the clinic; he swore he could feel it under Derek's sallow skin, a steady pulse of _wrong, wrong, wrong_. Even when the danger had passed, he couldn't sleep for thinking about it, about the way he could smell it curling into Derek's body, decaying in his blood, and it felt as if a thin layer of powder from the bullet had lifted into the air and settled softly into the corners of his eyes and the chambers of his heart.

_Wolfsbane._

They wore thick gloves and gas masks, sweat pooling beneath their long sleeves they carried Peter's body through the forest in the heat of July; thick ropes adorned with the acrid blooms of wolfsbane lay coiled in bags strapped across their chests, and even through all the layers of protection, Scott could feel it singeing his lungs (memory, perhaps, but it felt real all the same). They put Peter in his third and final grave, this time nowhere near the house that had twice condemned him and twice failed to hold him in the clutch of death; they buried him in the deepest reaches of the preserve, soft dirt eclipsed by stone and then by the ropes, coiling around his coffin and out for several hundred yards beneath the dirt in an enormous spiral trapping him and warning others off of his grave should they go digging for it.

Once the last of the dirt had been smoothed over, Scott slid his still-gloved hand into Derek's and listened to his even pulse, his face unreadable behind the mask. He never knew how Derek looked at the moment he put the last of his blood to rest in the ground, only how he looked after, at once wounded and hopeful in a way only he could look as he pressed Scott down onto a crisp new mattress in the half-renovated shell of his home. The air they shared smelled of paint and mortar, and as Derek leaned in and kissed him (carefully, as if he didn't quite trust that it wouldn't break both of them), Scott caught a hint of wolfsbane from the dark smattering of their clothes across the dusty floor, and it smelled of pain and death, but also of new beginnings.


End file.
